


Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather

by Woldy



Category: The Devil Wears Prada
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Related, Community: kink_bingo, F/F, Fashion & Couture, Gen, Kinks, POV Female Character, Shoes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-02
Updated: 2010-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-11 10:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woldy/pseuds/Woldy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shoes have always been Emily's weakness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shiny, shiny, shiny boots of leather

**Author's Note:**

> For my [](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**kink_bingo**](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) square 'foot/shoe fetish'. The title is stolen from The Velvet Underground. This fic isn't betaed and I apologise for any mistakes.

_Emily, to Andy's replacement: You have some very large shoes to fill. I hope you know that._ The Devil Wears Prada (film)

  
It starts the day Andrea comes in wearing the Chanel boots.

One minute Emily is the cool, contemptuous First Assistant, chatting with Serena about their favourite subject: Andrea's innumerable inadequacies. The next moment Andrea strolls in with the nonchalance of a model in a shampoo commercial, all fake smile and swaying hips, _wearing the Chanel boots._

Emily breaks off mid-word and suddenly there isn't enough oxygen.

The phone rings, and Andy swoops down to answer it.

Andrea has straightened her hair, and the blazer isn't a total disaster, but the outfit is all about those boots: the stiletto heel and perfect pointed toe, that buttery soft leather stretching from Andy's toe to the top of her thighs. Andrea is so dull, so safe, so plebeian, that the sight of her in the Chanel boots is like discovering that Cinderella's glass slipper fits her ugly sister.

Finally Emily finds her voice. "How... Are you wearing the Ch-"

"The Chanel boots?" Andrea says, milking the moment. "Yes, I am."

"You look good," says Serena, the traitor, and Emily shoots her a look.

If that's all it takes to win Serena over to the cause of Andrea Sachs, then their morning chats are _over_.

Her problem is that Andrea's Cinderella moment isn't over. The next day Andy arrives in a pair of studded Manolo Blahniks that Emily would have from nabbed from the closet weeks ago if they were her size. On Friday Andy comes in wearing a pair of snakeskin peeptoe Christian Louboutins, and Emily can barely drag her eyes away.

A week ago, the sight of Andrea Sachs' feet would have sent Emily running for the bathroom to vomit up her nonfat blueberry yoghurt. Now, one glance at Andy's big toe is enough to tell her that Nigel's makeover extends all the way down to prescribing a decent pedicure and the hottest shade of Chanel varnish.

All day Emily hears the _click, click, click_ of Andrea's heels on the wooden floor, and tries not to imagine how the snakeskin gleams and flexes with every step. It's all she can do to answer the phone competently, and Miranda has to call her name twice before Emily notices.

"Emily? Do you have something _better_ to do?"

"I'm so sorry Miranda," Emily says, leaping from her seat, and runs into Miranda's office.

Miranda gives her a cool look over her glasses, recites about a dozen things for Emily to do, and dismisses her with the customary, "That is all."

Emily takes a final look at Miranda's shoes -- five inch Valentinos in burgundy suede --and she sneaks a look at Andy's shoes on the way back to her desk. The rich sheen of brown snakeskin, the hint of celadon varnish -- damn, fuck, bollocks!

Emily changes course and walks quickly to the bathroom. She leans her back against the wall, closes her eyes, and takes several deep breaths. There's no denying it: Andrea Sachs looks better in designer shoes than Miranda does, and virtually nobody outshines Miranda at anything.

Emily opens her eyes and looks at her reflection in the huge mirror. She looks fine: five pounds from her ideal weight, but the jacket is working on her, and at least she fits into sample sizes.

In retrospect, Emily tells herself, she should have seen this coming: fat girls love accessories, because they hate clothes. The only way Andrea is ever going to fit in at _Runway_, unless she gets dysentery or something, is through her shoes. Much as she detests Andrea, shoes have always been Emily's weakness.

When Andy gets up to leave that evening, she pauses by Emily's desk.

"I know you like them."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Emily snaps.

"I don't mind sharing," Andy replies, dropping her voice so there's no chance of Miranda overhearing. "I've got the Chanel boots, and I wouldn't want anyone to think I'm greedy."

"Size eight _is_ greedy," Emily says, but her heart's not in it.

Andy just gives a little smile, and swings the James Holt bag -- coordinated with the shoes, a nice touch - over her shoulder. Emily watches her walk towards the door, _click, click, click_ over the polished wood.

Andy's hand is on the door when she pauses, and looks back over her shoulder. Emily drags her eyes from the taper of that snakeskin heel up to Andy's face, where she finds an unmistakeable smirk.

"If you want them," Andy says, in a low, teasing voice, "then you only have to ask me nicely."

It would make sense if Emily wanted the shoes, but she doesn't. What she wants is to savour the sight of Andrea in the shoes, and there's no sane explanation for _that._

"I thought you were going home, not parading around in the hallway," Emily stammers.

"That's funny," says Andy, quirking an eyebrow. "I understood that parading about was the whole point of fashion."

Andy struts away without waiting for a reply, and Emily counts silently to twenty before letting her head fall against the desk.


End file.
